Nine Year Old Headed to the Big Dance!

By John Jones  September 2009

My father was a contractor. He installed plumbing into the foundations of new homes. I remember every single time he would take me with him to a job site. He drove a 1966 Chevy Panel Wagon, the precursor to today’s big Suburban SUV. The big bench seat was well worn from years of use with a tear here and there; the whole truck smelled of his pipe tobacco. Anyone who’s father smoked a pipe while you were young may have fond memories of that delicious aroma. And, it seems to me, that it was always muddy wherever we went. My dad had those big boots that construction workers wear. You know the ones I mean? They’re kind of buckskin colored and they come up high over your ankles. I think my mother took a picture or two of me trying wear dad’s big construction boots on more than one occasion. I can still remember thinking what it was going to be like to wear boots like those one day when I got bigger. I was going to be a contractor and wear those big tan boots, just like my dad.

When I turned seven years old, like most fellows, I started playing Little League Baseball. It was well organized and our district had a good number of more-than adequate players. By the time I was nine, it’s safe to say that I had acquired some skill on the diamond. My father would come home from a long day’s work on a site and we’d play a little catch in the yard. I’d say, “Dad, you can’t play baseball in those big boots!” and he’d tell me, “Son, it doesn’t matter what shoes you wear if you can hit one over the fence.”

The next baseball season rolled around and as fast as kids grow, wouldn’t you know it was time for a new pair of shoes. All the other kids on my team were wearing sneakers; some kids even had wealthy parents who could afford to buy the real baseball shoes with cleats. Wow! But what do you think I wanted to wear? You guessed it; buckskin construction boots, just like my old man! Big thick soles, tops come way up over the ankles. They even smelled like my pop’s leather boots, I was so proud of those shoes. What I failed to take into consideration, however, at the tender age of nine was the fact that I was severely handicapping my ability to sprint from base to base. So practice comes around and there’s my team in their brand new, shiny Converse All-Stars, there’s Timmy Bennett in his fancy cleats, and then there’s me; in my brand new Little Hank brand buckskin leather construction boots. Let me tell you, I felt like a million bucks!

Now the tormenting begins. There’s Timmy Bennett, “You’re never going to be able to field the ball in those boots!” On and on it went from practice to practice. Even my coach took me aside, “John, don’t you think it would be better to wear a pair of honest athletic shoes?” Every time someone had something to say, I’d just repeat what my father had told me, “It doesn’t matter what shoes you wear if you can hit one over the fence.”

That season I played second base and shortstop, mostly. I never had to move too far to snatch the ball and once a big kid from another team hit one right at me so hard that had I not reacted in that split second and caught it in my glove, the coach said later that the ball would have probably landed me in the hospital with some broken bones and a concussion if it didn’t kill me. But I stood tall and strong in my boots, they gave me plenty of support.

Another time, I assisted a triple play and right after that, I noticed that the rest of the team started to lighten up about my choice of footwear. I kept to my guns, repeating what my father had said, “It doesn’t matter what shoes you wear if you can hit one over the fence.” I was determined to do exactly that. Sure, I had popped off a string of base hits in a few games, but I knew my time was coming.

That year we made it to the finals and we were tied for first place with our arch-enemy, the Blue Jays. They had a bunch of big kids on their team. We got new uniforms, Timmy Bennett got new cleats and Jeff Thompson’s father was going to treat us all to Pizza Hut after the game, whether we won or not! So, you could say we were pretty pumped up about the whole thing. The game got underway and everything seemed pretty even for the first three or four innings. The Jays scored a run or two, then we would; just like a regular season game. All of a sudden, our pitcher loses his arm and has to be replaced. Our relief was out sick so the coach puts me in to pitch. Now the heckling really begins, “Hey, where’d you get the boots?” “Hey, Paul Bunyan, where’s your Sky-Blue Ox?” Now, for a second baseman, I was okay on the mound. I mean, I could put ‘em over the plate. The problem was that my pitches were pretty easy for the Jays’ batters to pick off so we take a few lumps and they score a few extra runs on us. Thank to Timmy Bennett and those nifty cleats, though, we pull a double play and go up to bat for the second half of the final inning. We need three runs to win and their pitcher, Billy Robinson; we call him “stinky” because of an incident at camp a few years prior, walks the first and third batters. Then it’s my turn. I step up to the plate. “Stinky” looks me over and then a quick throw to first to try and tag the runner there; nope, safe on the bag. The ball is tossed back to Billy and he gets the signal from the catcher. He thinks for a moment and then goes into his wind-up. “Steeeee-riiiiii-kkkkeeeee!” yells the ump. The catcher takes the opportunity to try and get in one last jab, “Hey, nice shoes, I’ll bet you get real far in those!” You know what I’m thinking.

Billy winds up and gives me a fastball over the outside edge. I take a swing, catch a piece of it and it rolls off the first base line, foul ball; strike two. I look around the stands. There’s my folks, standing up, my dad’s giving me the “thumbs up.” I decide it’s time. “Stinky” gets a new ball, looks me up and down, picks his pitch and winds up. It’s a straight, fast pitch coming in right over the plate.

Did you ever have one of those moments where time seems to slow down? It looked like a scene from the movies; the ball looked like it slowed down to about five miles per hour and I can pick the fence that I want to send it over. A swing with everything I’ve got, the bat connects at the sweet spot and launches the ball toward outer space. I start running towards first base, okay, not so much a “run’ as it is a “lumber” but you get the idea.

This was it; my shining moment. I was finally going to get to tell “Stinky” where he could stuff it. The ball sails over the right fence with a couple of feet to spare. We win the game by one point; I’m thinking this is going to change the game of baseball as we know it. Endorsement deals, commercials… I expect we’ll ALL be wearing Little Hank construction boots next year. Well, maybe not, but when coach handed me the game-winning ball at Pizza Hut, my heart was pretty proud. And there’s my old man, “Hey Dad, nice shoes!”